


Somebody to Love

by maniacalmole



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Queen - Freeform, vivaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniacalmole/pseuds/maniacalmole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mutually pining Crowley and Aziraphale sing along to songs that understand their feelings, and try to not accidentally draw all of heaven’s attention to themselves. You know how certain songs make you think of your OTP? Yeah, I decided to write a fanfic about it :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody to Love

**Author's Note:**

> The two songs featured and their lyrics (I include any of the lyrics and translations that I'm directly referencing in the text already but here's the rest of the songs)
> 
> Somebody to Love (Queen)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kijpcUv-b8M  
> Lyrics: http://www.metrolyrics.com/somebody-to-love-lyrics-queen.html
> 
> Vivaldi's Rain (Celtic Women)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEf5JqUrSvk  
> Lyrics and Translation: http://www.metrolyrics.com/vivaldis-rain-lyrics-celtic-woman.html

                One principality and one demon had been drinking all night long. They were not in strife, and they were not celebrating anything. They had only gone out to dinner, like they had every few weeks since they had saved the world together about a year back. Aziraphale had invited Crowley back to his shop for a nightcap. It had turned into all-night reminiscing and musing about the future, with a good supply of wine to go along with it. When the sun began to peek in through the windows, they had decided it was time to part. This was not for any particular reason, except that it was tradition that one of them would leave eventually, and they had acquired the habit of following foolish traditions without thought from spending too many millennia among humans. Besides, each felt that he had been staring at the other too much.

                The angel and demon wobbled out into the front of the shop.

                “We shouldn’t do this so often,” Aziraphale said, referring to drinking so much.

                “We don’t do it that often,” Crowley muttered, referring to spending time together.

                “W’ve gotten drunk many times since we saved the world.” Aziraphale brightened up at his own words. “We _did_ save the world.”

                “And whata world we saved, eh?” Crowley grinned and nudged him with his elbow. Aziraphale tittered, and also teetered. He steadied himself, then smiled.

                “How long’s it been, again?”

                “For Go—For Someone’s sake, angel. You don’t remember what day it was?”

                “I remember the day _it_ was. Don’t ‘member what _today_ is.”

                “Oh.” Crowley snickered. “S’been about a year.”

                “About a year.” Aziraphale nodded complacently. “Time flies,” he said, thinking, _I’m so glad we’re still as close as we were right after._

                “Mm,” Crowley said, thinking, _I can’t believe we’re still not any closer than we were right after._

                The two regarded each other in drunken silence. Aziraphale sniffed. Crowley shook his head.

                “Gotta go.”

                He walked to the coat rack, grabbed his coat, and turned to walk outside.

                “Waaaaaiit,” Aziraphale wailed. Crowley grimaced at the noise, then giggled.

                “What? What?”

                “Wait, wait, wait.” The angel marched over and wagged his finger at him. “You’re forgetting something.”

                “Well, what is it?” the demon snapped, sounding irritated but wearing a grin.

                Aziraphale reached into Crowley’s coat pocket and pulled out his sunglasses. He held them under the demon’s nose. “Hmmm?”

                Crowley went cross-eyed to look at them. He snorted. “Whoops.”

                “You’re still drunk.”

                “M’not.”

                “You are. You need to sober up b’fore you drive.”

                “Okay, ‘kay.”

                The two supernatural beings waited a moment with their eyes closed. When they opened them again, with a clearer vision, they realized how close they were standing to each other.

                Aziraphale blinked.

                “Here,” he murmured. He unfolded the glasses and slid them onto the demon’s face. His hand brushed his cheek and stayed there. Crowley didn’t move. The angel took in a slow, deep breath. The demon did not breathe at all.

                Aziraphale lowered his hands, took a step back, and cleared his throat. “Imagine,” he said with an awkward chuckle, “what people would think if you went out into the streets with _your_ eyes.”

                A wrinkle appeared between Crowley’s eyebrows, and he turned away. “Yeah.”

                _I didn’t mean it like that_ , Aziraphale thought. _They’re beautiful._ If he had only had the first thought, he might have said it out loud, but the second made him freeze.

                Crowley had already walked to the door. “See you around,” he said, without facing him, and he walked out of the shop. Aziraphale bowed his head and, after a moment, turned his back to the door.

 

                Crowley stumbled to his car, not because he was still drunk, but because he was feeling lousy and legs were overrated anyway. _Ariel should have just stayed in the ocean, with the dolphins_ , he thought. And he should’ve just stayed—stayed—Well, he should just stay home. There wasn’t much good in going to the angel’s these days, anyway. Whatever felt good also made him feel bad.

                He just wanted to lounge on his sofa and watch _Golden Girls_ until he lost consciousness, and never think about Aziraphale’s hand touching his face or the angel smiling at him ever again….

                He was going to need something to distract him on the way home.

                Crowley got into the Bentley and slammed the door shut. He sighed and turned on some music.

                “ _Caaan…_ ”

                Crowley shot the Blaupunkt a deadly look.

                “ _Anybodyyy…find meee…._ ” He hit the player, then started frantically fiddling with the controls. “ _Somebody to—_ “

                “No.” His eyes widened as his efforts to turn off the player went in vain. “No, no, no.” As the piano played, he glared pointedly, and the radio burst into flames. Then sputtered out. Crowley sank back in his seat in dismay. The song went on.

                “ _Take a loook in the mirror, and cry—Lord, what you’re doing to me…_ ”

                “What _are_ you doing to me?” the demon murmured. He was careful to direct his thoughts anywhere but up. ‘Up’ was not the direction demons’ thoughts were supposed to go. At his car, should do. Good old Bentley, got him through the end of the world, and it decided to betray him _now_?

                “ _I have spent all my years in believing you_ —“

                A religious crisis was the last thing he needed. The demon was seized by a sudden burst of anxious energy. He pulled the car out onto the road and sped away, and the song played on.

 

                Meanwhile, Aziraphale had decided that some music might soothe his nerves. He turned on the radio and set it to the classical station. Ah, Vivaldi’s “Winter”. He got himself a cup of tea as the sound of gently plucking strings relaxed him.

                “ _Signore, guidami…_ ”

                Oh, dear. It was the one with words.

                Aziraphale calmly walked over to the radio. A song about asking God to guide you in talking to your loved one was not exactly what he had been looking for. In fact, if he _were_ to pray about such a thing—well, the other angels might not look too kindly on his current predicament. Aziraphale winced. Yet he could not bring himself to turn the radio off.

                “ _Ho vista l’amore della mia vita e lui ha vista me_ …”

                _I have seen the love of my life, and he has seen me_. Aziraphale fell tragically into a chair and sipped his tea, and the radio remained on.

 

                “ _I work hard (he works hard) every day of my life, I work till I ache in my bones…_ ”

                By the second verse, Crowley was lip-syncing. The Bentley flew down the road as though it were the world’s first self-driving vehicle, and the demon was not paying the slightest bit of attention. _I_ have _worked hard_ , he thought. _I do my job as a demon, and end up nearly destroying the world. I save the bloody world, and what do I get for it? Nil. Nada. A few awkward dinners and a car that likes to torture me with its musical selection._ He squeezed his eyes shut and lip-synced like he never had before.

                “ _I go down on my knees and I start to pray, till the tears run down from my eyes_ —“

                He stopped himself short of even whispering the actual name of his old boss. Who knew what the guys up above counted as praying these days.

 

                “ _La vita scorre veloce, il mio cuore batte forte_ …”

                _Life goes vast, my heart beats strong_. Well, Aziraphale was sure he wasn’t experiencing any of that sort of thing. Quick beating hearts were for humans younger than himself, he thought.

                Until he realized that his palms were still sweaty from a few minutes ago, and his hands had been shaky, and his face had felt warm when it was so close to Crowley’s face, and he got a strange feeling in his chest that _could_ be supposed to have something to do with his heart rate….And time didn’t always work right when the demon was around, either. But instead of going fast, it seemed to stop at moments, particularly when Crowley had his glasses off and they made eye contact for one very long second.

                But anyway, perhaps the song was more relevant than he had thought.

                Aziraphale covered his face with his hands and groaned.

 

                The Bentley raced down the road. Crowley was singing at the top of his lungs.

                “They say I’m going crazy, they sayIgottalottawater in my braaiin, I got no common sense, I got nobody there to believe!”

                With each “Yeah” he hit the wheel. He didn’t even care if he looked ridiculous, and it didn’t matter, anyway, because nobody saw him, what with their having to veer off the road to avoid being hit.

 

                The people working at the classical radio station were surprised to find that “Vivaldi’s Rain” had played twice, and was now playing for the third time, without their being able to stop it. Aziraphale had not even noticed that he was doing it. He had gotten up and was compulsively rearranging his books, humming along. His efforts to distract himself from the song and its relevance were not working. Without meaning to, he sang the last line.

                “Sto pregando che dira di amarmi…”

                It meant “ _I’m praying that he’ll say that he loves me_.”

                “Oops.” Aziraphale froze. His brow furrowed. “I’m not literally praying that, of course. Erm. I’m an angel, after all, I don’t need to pray for things. I could just miracle them myself.” He gave a nervous giggle. “Oh bother. Please tell me heaven didn’t hear any of that.”

 

                Crowley finished his air guitar solo, and figured there was no point holding back now. He belted out the words.

                “I’m okay, I’m all right (he’s all right, he’s all right)…”

                His dashboard had taken a beating, but otherwise there had miraculously been no injuries.

                “Ain’t gonna faaace no defeat…I just gotta get out of this prison cell. One day, I’m gonna be free, Lord!—”

                Crowley dropped his arms. His face went pale.

                “Shit.”

                As the Bentley gradually slowed, the demon shrank into his seat.

                The way it worked was like a telephone—you dial the right number, you say the right word, and you get connected to the right people. The big man upstairs was certainly used to hearing his name used in vain, and didn’t pay attention to the majority of ‘calls’. But when it came from a demon, it was bound to attract some notice, if even from the workers whose job it was to weed out the spiritual telemarketers. Crowley waited. He wasn’t sure if anything would happen, and if it did, whether it would be a ‘visit’ or an instant smiting. Demons were not supposed to pray. The chorus on the radio grew. “ _Somebody, somebody, somebody, somebody_ …”

                Nothing happened.

                Crowley gritted his teeth.

                “ _Can anybody find me_ …”

                “Somebody to,” he mumbled. _Here goes nothing_ , he thought. “Love.”

                He grinned. He revved the engine back into life. The passers-by who had stopped to gaze in wonderment at the vintage car that had been sitting in the middle of a large intersection leaped out of the way to safety as the demon spun the Bentley around. He drove back in the direction of the bookshop, singing softly as he went.

                “Find me, find me…”

 

                Aziraphale was pacing and wringing his hands. He was waiting for someone to burst into the door, asking why he, an angel, had been praying, why he had been praying about someone he was in ‘love’ with, and why his thoughts after said prayer, which were customarily monitored, had kept returning to someone with slit-pupiled eyes.

                Somebody burst in through the door, and the angel gave a little cry of distress. It was Crowley.

                “ _Signore, guidami_ …” sang the radio.

                “Shut up,” snapped Crowley. The radio obediently turned itself off.

                “Crowley.” The demon had marched over to him. Aziraphale raised his hands in warning. “I think you should know—“

                “How long does it take for angels to respond to a prayer, if they’re going to?”

                “Then you heard from outside?” Aziraphale wiped his brow and closed his eyes. “Oh, dear. Before you say anything, I want you to know—to understand—“

                Crowley was confused, but still a bit out of breath from running into the store*.

                *And lip-sycing passionately through all of “Somebody to Love”.

                “I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” Aziraphale went on. “I didn’t mean to pray for it, not really, I was only singing the song, you see. It was a song, it happened to be relevant to how I was feeling, but I didn’t mean for you to find out this way, and I—“

                “Wait, wait, wait.” Crowley shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

                Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “Um. What you heard. Why you were asking about prayers?” The angel looked out the window at the calm, empty street. He gave a relieved sigh. “Well, usually, they would respond almost instantaneously. They _hear_ the prayer immediately, anyway, and if it’s something odd, like—erm—an angel praying, well, they’d almost certainly check up on things right away. So perhaps it didn’t really count as a prayer, and perhaps no one noticed.”

                Crowley nodded. He was running through the lyrics of “Vivaldi’s Rain” in his head five times. Things were clicking into place, and he was starting to smile. He was still fueled by adrenaline and a good song stuck in his head.

                “It seems we might be safe after all,” Aziraphale said. He looked nervously at the demon. “No angels raining down on us. Erm. That was what you were asking me about, right? Only you seemed a bit confused.”

                “So we’re safe?”

                “Yes. I think so.”

                “Oh. Good.” Crowley grabbed the angel by his shoulders and kissed him.

 

                The poor workers at the classical radio station were having a rough day. Now they were going to have to explain to their listeners why their show kept playing Queen.


End file.
